overwhelmed by her parents with all the little wordless and consoling
kindnesses by which the old couple tried in vain to make up to her for
her distress of heart, Augustine went away, feeling the impossibility
of making a superior mind intelligible to weak intellects. She had
learned that a wife must hide from every one, even from her parents,
woes for which it is so difficult to find sympathy. The storms and
sufferings of the upper spheres are appreciated only by the lofty
spirits who inhabit there. In any circumstance we can only be judged
by our equals.

Thus poor Augustine found herself thrown back on the horror of her
meditations, in the cold atmosphere of her home. Study was indifferent
to her, since study had not brought her back her husband's heart.
Initiated into the secret of these souls of fire, but bereft of their
resources, she was compelled to share their sorrows without sharing
their pleasures. She was disgusted with the world, which to her seemed
mean and small as compared with the incidents of passion. In short,
her life was a failure.

One evening an idea flashed upon her that lighted up her dark grief
like a beam from heaven. Such an idea could never have smiled on a
heart less pure, less virtuous than hers. She determined to go to the
Duchesse de Carigliano, not to ask her to give her back her husband's
heart, but to learn the arts by which it had been captured; to engage
the interest of this haughty fine lady for the mother of her lover's
children; to appeal to her and make her the instrument of her future
happiness, since she was the cause of her present wretchedness.

So one day Augustine, timid as she was, but armed with supernatural
courage, got into her carriage at two in the afternoon to try for